My Masochistic Heart

If a person can be considered a masochist for physical pain, is it also possible to be one for emotional pain? I don't mean the type of humiliation and mindfucking that can go on during play, I mean heartache, rejection, things humans encounter every day in their own emotional world. Could it be the reason some of us just cannot seem to rid ourselves of things (or people) that are bad for us, that do nothing to benefit us? Instead of, or in addition to, being a pain slut, I guess I can say I'm a heartache slut. A glutton for depression and misery. Maybe it's why I go for the unattainable and let myself become attached...to the womanizers, the married ones, the ones with bedroom eyes and sinister smiles. I read somewhere that art does not come from happiness. So it's the artist/masochist/manic depressive in me that spills itself onto paper. If I go for the unattainable because there's no fear of getting trapped. And I keep doing it over and over again, savoring every punishment, every tear, every moment curled up in bed hiding under the covers and wishing I could stay there forever. It's the equivalent of having my hair pulled, of being smacked across the face and having my ass beat while being fucked at the same time.

But at least those bruises fade within a week or so. The emotional ones, the ones left on my soul, can last a lifetime. A bruised soul and a heart that's been carved out with a blunt and rusty knife can leave one scorned, guarded, and un-trusting of any new human being that enters one's life.

I guess when you're a masochist like me, you welcome every new creature with anticipation of any new sensation they may inflict upon you, regardless of the consequences. I pay no mind to danger signs, warnings, or red flags because it's "Fuck you all I'm doing it for ME." It's selfishness and self-destruction making mad, passionate love. The outcome is usually a nuclear warhead detonating within my ribcage, but it's not enough to stop me in my tracks. It's an intangible drug.

Go ahead baby, sweep me off my feet, make me feel like a Goddess, make a connection with me and stoke the fire between us. Then drop me like dead weight because deep down it's what I've been expecting all along.

He'll just inspire more writing and add to my cynicism. Another one to deliver a blow with a cat of nine tails. And I relish in it. I bite my lip until I feel the blood run down my chin because the pain feels so good. Do I understand it? No. Do I care? Not really. It gives me another reason to put my pen to the paper.

I want to tie him down and torture him until he begs for mercy; treat him like MY whore, MY little fucktoy. I want to tease his body until he's on the brink of insanity and his cock is so hard that he could drill cement with it. Why do I fantasize this way about this one particular man-child that I've already conquered? Because I'm not in love with him. There is no emotion involved. It is sex in its rawest form, animalistic, sweaty, messy. All he has to do is tease my pussy with the head of his cock and I'm on the brink of coming...

So what about the other ones? Why let the other ones dominate me, whether they know they're doing it or not? Why the ones I fall hard for? It's the men that, for a short period of time I think I could spend the rest of my life with, that I want to fuck me like I'm their bitch, like I'm their cockslut, and force me to go down on them so hard that my eyes water and my nose starts to run. It's these men whose hands I want to feel around my throat, that I want to tie ME up and torture me mercilessly.

PAIN IS LOVE AND LOVE IS PAIN
LOVE IS SUICIDE AND LOVE DIES HARD